The Arctic Incident

by Eoin Colfer

  “But my father is so close, Butler. I can’t give up now.”

  In spite of herself, Holly was touched by his unwillingness to give up, against all the odds. She was certain that, for once, Artemis wasn’t trying to manipulate anybody. He was simply a boy who missed his father. Maybe her defenses were down, but she felt sorry for him.

  “We’re not giving up, Artemis,” she said softly. “We’re regrouping. There’s a difference. We’ll be back. Remember, it’s always darkest before the dawn.”

  Artemis looked at her. “What dawn? We’re in the Arctic, remember?”

  Operations Booth

  Foaly was furious with himself. After all the security encryptions he’d built into his systems, Opal Koboi had simply strolled in here and hijacked the entire network. And what’s more, the LEP had paid her for the job. The centaur had to admire her nerve. It was a brilliantly simple plan. Apply for the upgrade contract, submit the lowest estimate. Get the LEP to give you an access-all-areas chip and then piggyback spy-cams on the local systems. Foaly would be willing to bet that Opal had even billed the LEP for the surveillance equipment.

  Foaly pushed a few buttons experimentally. No response. Not that he’d expected any. Doubtless Opal Koboi had everything wired down to the last fiber-optic. Perhaps she was watching him at this very moment. He could just imagine her. Coiled up on a Koboi Hoverboy giggling at the plasma screen. His greatest rival, gloating over his destruction.

  Foaly growled. She may have caught him off guard once, but it wouldn’t happen again. He would not go to pieces for Opal Koboi’s entertainment. . . . Then again, maybe he would.

  The centaur began to heave theatrical sobs, peeping out between his fingers. Now, if I were a button camera, where would I hide? Somewhere the sweeper wouldn’t check. Foaly glanced at the bug sweeper, a small complex-looking mass of cables and chips attached to the roof. The only place the sweeper didn’t check was inside the sweeper itself.

  Now he knew Opal’s vantage point, for all the good it did him. If the camera was piggybacking inside the sweeper, there would be a small blindspot directly below the unit’s titanium casing. The pixie could still see everything of importance. He was still locked out of the computer, and locked in the Operations Booth.

  The centaur cradled his head between his hands, the picture of a beaten fairy. In fact he was scanning the booth. What had come in since the Koboi upgrades? There must be some untainted equipment. But there was nothing except junk. A roll of fiber-optic cable. A few conductor clips and a few tools. Nothing useful. Then something winked at him from beneath a workstation. A green light.

  Foaly’s heart jumped ten beats per minute. He knew instantly what it was. Artemis Fowl’s laptop computer. Complete with modem and e-mail capability. He willed himself to maintain calm. Opal Koboi couldn’t possibly have bugged it. The device had only come in hours ago. He hadn’t even got around to dismantling it yet.

  The centaur clopped across to his toolbox, and in a fit of frustration dumped the contents onto the plasma tiles. He was not so frustrated that he forgot to snag some cable and snips. The next step in his faked breakdown was to flop onto the worktop sobbing uncontrollably. Naturally, he had to flop over the precise spot where Holly had left the laptop. With a casual kick, Foaly slid the computer into the space where the sweeper’s blindspot should be.

  So far, so good. Foaly popped the laptop’s lid, and quickly shut off the speakers. Humans would insist on their machines beeping at the most inopportune moments. He allowed one hand to drag across the keyboard and moments later he was in the e-mail program.

  Now for the problem. Wireless Internet access is one thing, but access from the center of the earth is quite another. Cradling his head in the crook of one arm, Foaly jimmied one end of a fiber-optic cable into a scope uplink port. The scopes were shrouded trackers concealed on American communications satellites. Now he had an aerial. Let’s hope Mud Boy was switched on.

  Koboi Laboratories

  Opal Koboi had never had so much fun. The underworld was literally her plaything. She stretched on her Koboi Hoverboy like a contented cat, eyes devouring the chaos on the plasma monitors. The LEP had no chance. It was only a matter of time before the B’wa Kell gained access to Police Plaza, then the city was theirs. Next came Atlantis, then the human world.

  Opal floated between screens, soaking up every detail. In the city, goblins flowed from every inch of darkness, armed and thirsty for blood. Softnose slugs ripped chunks from historic edifices. Ordinary fairies barricaded themselves in their houses, praying that the marauding gangs would pass them by. Businesses were looted and torched. Not too much torching, she hoped. Opal Koboi had no desire to be queen of a war zone.

  A com-screen opened on the main display. It was Cudgeon on their secure line. And he seemed actually happy. The cold happiness of revenge.

  “Briar,” squealed Opal. “This is wonderful. I wish you were here to see it.”

  “Soon. I must remain with my troops. After all, because I was the one who unearthed Foaly’s treachery, the Council has reinstated me as commander. How is our prisoner?”

  Opal glanced at the Foaly screen.“Disappointing, frankly. I expected some plotting. An escape attempt, at least. But all he does is mope about and throw the odd tantrum.”

  Cudgeon’s smile widened. “Suicidal, I expect. In fact I’m certain of it.” Then the recently promoted commander was all business again. “What of the LEP? Any unexpected brainwaves?”

  “No. Exactly as you predicted. They are cowering in Police Plaza like tortoises in their shells. Shall I shut off local communications?”

  Cudgeon shook his head.“No. They forecast their every move on their so-called secure channels. Keep them open. Just in case.”

  Opal Koboi hovered closer to the screen. “Tell me again, Briar. Tell me about the future.”

  For a moment, annoyance flashed across Cudgeon’s face. But today, of all days, his good humor could not be suppressed for long.

  “The council has been told that Foaly has orchestrated the sabotage from his locked Operations Booth. But you shall miraculously override the centaur’s program and return control of Police Plaza’s DNA cannons to the LEP. Those ridiculous goblins shall be overrun. I shall be the hero of the resistance, and you shall be my princess. Every military contract for the next five hundred years shall belong to Koboi Laboratories.”

  Opal’s breath caught in her throat. “And then?”

  “And then, together we will rid the earth of these tiresome Mud Men. That, my dear, is the future.”

  Arctic Shuttleport

  Artemis’s phone rang. Something even he hadn’t anticipated. Artemis stripped off a glove with his teeth, tearing the mobile phone from its Velcro strip.

  “Text message,” he said, navigating through the cell phone’s menu. “No one has this number except Butler.” Holly folded her arms. “Obviously, someone does.” Artemis ignored her tone. “It must be Foaly. He’s been monitoring my wireless communications for months. Either he’s using my computer, or he’s found a way to unify our platforms.”

  “I see,” said Butler and Root together. Two big lies. Holly was unimpressed by all the jargon. “So what does it say?” Artemis tapped the tiny screen. “See for yourself.” Captain Short took the cell phone, scrolling

  through the message. Her face grew longer with each line ...

  CMNDR ROOT. TRBLE BELOW. HAVN OVERRN BY GOBLNS. PLICE PLAZA SRROUNDED. CUDGEON

  + OPL KBOI BHND PLOT. NO WPONS R CMMUNICATIONS. DNA CNONS CNTRLLED BY KBOI. I M TRPPED IN OP BTH. CNCL THNKS IM 2 BLM. IF ALIVE PLSE HLP. IF NOT, WRNG NMBR.

  Holly swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “This is not good.” The commander jumped to his feet, grabbing the cell phone. “No,” he declared moments later. “It certainly isn’t.

  Cudgeon! All the time it was Cudgeon. Why didn’t I see it? Can we get a message to Foaly?”

  Artemis considered it. “No. There’s no network here. I’m surprised we could
even receive.”

  “Couldn’t you rig it somehow?”

  “Certainly. Just give me six months, some specialized equipment and three miles of steel girder.”

  Holly snorted. “Some criminal mastermind you turned out to be.”

  Butler placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “Artemis is thinking.”

  Artemis stared deep into the glow cube’s liquid plasma heart.

  “We have two options,” he began after a moment. Nobody interrupted, not even Holly. After all it had been Artemis Fowl who devised a way to escape the fairy time field.

  “We could get some human aid. No doubt some of Butler’s more dubious acquaintances could be persuaded to help, for a fee of course.”

  Root shook his head. “No good.”

  “They could be mind-wiped afterward.”

  “Sometimes wipes don’t take. The last thing we need is mercenaries with residual memories. Option two?”

  “We break into Koboi Laboratories, and return weapons control to the LEP.”

  The commander guffawed. “Break into Koboi Laboratories? Are you serious? That entire compound is built on bedrock. There are no windows, and they have blast-resistant walls, and DNA stun cannons. Any unauthorized personnel who come within a hundred yards get blasted right between the pointy ears.”

  Butler whistled.“Seems like a whole lot of hardware for an engineering company.”

  “I know,” sighed Root. “Koboi Labs had special permits. I signed them myself.”

  Butler considered it for several moments.

  “Can’t be done,” he pronounced eventually. “Not without the blueprints.”

  “D’Arvit,” swore the commander. “I never thought I’d say this, but there’s only one fairy for a job like this . . .”

  Holly nodded. “Mulch Diggums.”

  “Diggums?”

  “A dwarf. Career criminal. The only fairy ever to break into Koboi Laboratories and live. Unfortunately, we lost him last year. Tunneling out of your manor, as it happens.”

  “I remember him,” said Butler. “Nearly took my head off. A slippery character.”

  Root laughed softly. “Eight times I nabbed old Mulch. The last one was for the Koboi Labs job. As I recall, Mulch and his cousin set up as building contractors. A way to get plans for secure facilities. They got the Koboi contract. Mulch left himself a back door. Typical Diggums, he breaks into the most secure facility under the planet, then tries to sell an alchemy vat to one of my squeals.”

  Artemis sat up. “Alchemy? You have alchemy vats?”

  “Stop drooling, Mud Boy. They’re experimental. The ancient warlocks used to be able to turn lead into gold, according to the Book, but the secret was lost. Even Opal Koboi hasn’t managed it yet.”

  “Oh,” said Artemis, disappointed.

  “Believe it or not, I almost miss that criminal. He had a way of insulting a person.” Root glanced toward the heavens. “I wonder if he’s up there now, looking down on us.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Holly guiltily. “Actually, Commander, Mulch Diggums is in Los Angeles.”

  CHAPTER 11

  MULCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

  Los Angeles

  Mulch Diggums was, in fact, outside the apartment of an Oscar-winning actress. Of course, she didn’t know he was there. And naturally he was up to no good. Once a thief, always a thief.

  Not that Mulch needed the money. He’d done very well out of the Artemis Fowl siege. Well enough to take out a lease on a penthouse apartment in Beverly Hills. He’d stocked the apartment with a Pioneer entertainment system, a full DVD library, and enough beef jerky to last a lifetime. Time for a decade of rest and relaxation.

  But life is not like that. It refuses to curl up and sit quietly in a corner. The habits of several centuries would not go away. Halfway through the James Bond Collection, Mulch realized that he missed the bad old days. Soon the penthouse suite’s reclusive occupant was taking midnight strolls. These strolls generally ended up inside other people’s homes.

  Initially, Mulch just visited, savoring the thrill of defeating sophisticated Mud Man security systems. Then he began to take trophies. Small things—a crystal goblet, an ashtray, or a cat, if he was peckish. But soon Mulch Diggums began to crave the old notoriety, and his pilferings grew larger. Gold bars, goose-egg diamonds, or pit bull terriers, if he was really famished.

  The Oscar thing began quite by accident. He nabbed one as a curiosity on a midweek break to New York. Best Original Screenplay. The following morning he was front page news coast to coast. You’d think he’d ripped off a medical convoy instead of a gilded statuette. Mulch, of course, was delighted. He’d found his new nocturnal pastime.

  In the next two weeks, Mulch filched Best Soundtrack and Best Special Effects Academy Awards. The tabloids went crazy. They even gave him a nickname: the Grouch, after another well-known Oscar. When Mulch read that one, his toes wriggled for joy. And dwarf toes wriggling are quite a sight. They are nimble as fingers, double-jointed, and the less said about the smell, the better. Mulch’s mission became clear. He had to assemble an entire set.

  Over the next six months, the Grouch struck all across the United States. He even made a trip to Italy to collect a Best Foreign Language Film award. He had a special cabinet made with tinted glass that could be blacked out at the touch of a button. Mulch Diggums felt alive again.

  Of course, Oscar winners all over the planet tripled their security, which was just the way Mulch liked it. There was no challenge in breaking into a shack on the beach. High rise and high tech. That’s what the public wanted. So that’s what the Grouch gave them. The papers ate it up. He was a hero. During the daylight hours, when he couldn’t venture outside, Mulch busied himself writing the screenplay of his own exploits.

  Tonight was a big night. The last statuette. He was going for a Best Actress Award. And not just any old best actress, tonight’s target was the tempestuous Jamaican beauty Maggie V. This year’s winner for her portrayal of Precious, a tempestuous Jamaican beauty. Maggie V had stated publicly that if the Grouch tried anything in her apartment, he would get a lot more than he bargained for. How could Mulch resist a challenge like that?

  The building itself was easy to locate, a ten-story block of glass and steel just off Sunset Boulevard, a midnight stroll south of Mulch’s own home. So the intrepid dwarf packed his tools, preparing to burglarize his way into the history books.

  Maggie V was on the top floor. There was no question of going up the stairs, elevator, or shaft. It would have to be an outside job.

  In preparation for the climb, Mulch had not had anything to drink in two days. Dwarf pores are not just for sweating; they can take in moisture too. Very handy when you are trapped in a cave-in for days on end. Even if you can’t get your mouth to a drink, every inch of skin can leech water from the surrounding earth. When a dwarf was thirsty, as Mulch was now, his pores opened to the size of pinholes, and began to suck like crazy. This could be extremely useful, if say, you had to climb up the side of a tall building.

  Mulch took off his shoes and gloves, donned a stolen LEP helmet, and began to climb.

  Chute E37

  Holly could feel the commander’s glare crisping the hairs on the back of her neck. She tried to ignore it, concentrating on not dashing the Atlantean ambassador’s shuttle against the walls of the Arctic chute.

  “So, all this time, you knew Mulch Diggums was alive?”

  Holly nudged the starboard thruster to avoid a missile of half-melted rock.

  “Not for sure. Foaly just had this theory.”

  The commander wrung an imaginary neck. “Foaly! Why am I not surprised?”

  Artemis smirked from his seat in the passenger area. “Now, you two, we need to work together as a team.”

  “So tell me about Foaly’s theory, Captain,” ordered Root, belting himself into the copilot’s seat.

  Holly activated a static wash on the shuttle’s ex
ternal cameras. Positive and negative charges dislodged the sheets of dust from the lenses.

  “Foaly thought Mulch’s death a bit suspicious, given that he was the best tunnel fairy in the business.”

  “So why didn’t he come to me?”

  “It was just a hunch. With respect, you know what you’re like with hunches, Commander.”

  Root nodded grudgingly. It was true, he didn’t have time for hunches. It was hard evidence, or get out of my office until you’ve got some.

  “The centaur did a bit of investigating on his own time. The first thing he realized was that the gold recovered was a bit light. I negotiated for the return of half the ransom, and by Foaly’s reckoning the cart was about two dozen bars short.”

  The commander lit one of his trademark fungus cigars. He had to admit it sounded promising: gold missing, Mulch Diggums within a hundred miles. Two and two make four.

  “As you know, it’s standard procedure to spray any LEP property with solinium-based tracker, including the ransom gold. So, Foaly runs a scan for solinium, and he picks up hot spots all over Los Angeles. Particularly at the Crowley Hotel in Beverly Hills. When he hacks into the building computer, he finds the penthouse resident is listed as one Lance Digger.”

  Root’s pointy ears quivered. “Digger?”

  “Exactly,” nodded Holly. “A bit more than coincidence. Foaly came to me at that point, and I advised him to get some satellite photos before taking the file to you. Except .. .”

  “Except Mister Digger is proving very elusive. Am I right?”

  “Dead on.”

  Root’s coloring went from rose to tomato. “Mulch, that rascal. How did he do it?”

  Holly shrugged. “We’re guessing he transferred his iris-cam to some local wildlife, maybe a rabbit. Then collapsed the tunnel.”

  “So the life signs we were reading belonged to some rabbit.”

  “Exactly. In theory.”